Vive la France!

It's the 14th of July and I cannot but celebrate, with a few French poems, Bastille Day. Yesterday I saw the common press conference of Macron and Trump on CNN and I can truly say I wish we also had such an intelligent president, "un vrai diplomate", unlike the joker next to him.

“La poésie est mémoire, mémoire de l'intensité perdue.”

Now, while the parade is taking place on the Champs Elysees, I would like to celebrate this day with some French poems by a writer that, up until last year, when he passed away at the age of 93, was considered "the greatest French living poet" and whose poems have been studied in the last decades by French high school students. His name is YVES BONNEFOY (1923 - 2016) and he was not only a poet but also an impressive essayist, a very good translator of Shakespeare's work, a professor at "College de France", an art historian and an exceptional critic.

Here is the first part of one of his beautiful poems, "Summer night":

Nuit d'été 

Il me semble, ce soir,
Que le ciel étoile, s'élargissant,
Se rapproche de nous ; et que la nuit,
Derrière tant de feux, est moins obscure.
Et le feuillage aussi brille sous le feuillage. Le vert, et l'orangé des fruits mûrs, s'est accru, Lampe d'un ange proche ; un battement De lumière cachée prend l'arbre universel.
Il me semble, ce soir.
Que nous sommes entrés dans le jardin, dont l'ange
A refermé les portes sans retour.

"White Feathers in the Snow"

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; 
The worlds revolve like ancient women 
Gathering fuel in vacant lots. (Preludes)

I have heard the key 

Turn in the door once and turn once only 

We think of the key, each in his prison 

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison 

Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours 

Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus. (The Waste Land)

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly

But merely vans to beat the air

The air which is now thoroughly small and dry

Smaller and dryer than the will

Teach us to care and not to care

Teach us to sit still. (Ash Wednesday) 

What a better start of the New Year than with Jeremy Irons reading poetry on BBC Radio 4 and Jeanette Winterson introducing T.S. Eliot's work in the first three parts of the radio show? Such a fantastic insight into Eliot's work and a mesmerising rendition of his lines by Mr. Irons! I simply love it! 

T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965) was a famous American born poet, essayist and playwright who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1948. Back in 1927 he became a British citizen. "The Waste Land" (1922) is considered by many to be the most influential poetic work of the twentieth century. In-between 1930-1960 he was the most dominant figure in poetry and literary criticism in the English speaking world. 

You can listen to the 5 parts for free this month here. 

Come to the Edge

The Book of Kisses

If you read in Romanian, then you may be familiar with this wonderful mysterious poet I fell in love with years ago, Iv cel Naiv (Iv the Naive One). Not only do I own all his books, some of them autographed, but I have big plans concerning his work this summer...
Anyway, a day ago his latest book appeared, "Cartea Saruturilor" (The Book of Kisses) and I had to have it, read it and write about it in positive terms, because you cannot do things otherwise when it comes to Iv.You can find all the 42 poems here, together with Vali Petridean's drawings.

My favorite one? The Eyes Wide Closed Kiss :)

cei doi protagonisti isi imagineaza
ca-n jurul lor zeci de flamingo danseaza
in timp ce peste ei ninge cu flori de caisi
si ca totul va continua cand vor avea ochii deschisi 

(the two protagonists imagine
that around them dozens of flamingos are dancing
while apricot flowers are snowing upon them
and that everything will continue when their eyes are open) 

Here's an interview with the anonymous Iv :)

Emily

The poet Emily Elizabeth Dickinson was born on 10th December 1830, in Massachusetts. She used to live in total isolation from the world but she continued to read and send letters and poems to her friends. Upon her death, nearly 1,800 poems were discovered in 40 handbound volumes, which make her a very prolific writer. My favorite poem, and probably yours as well is HOPE.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

Click here for a beautiful reading of the poem on Paganini's music. 

Gods

Ms. Sexton went out looking for the gods.
She began looking in the sky
—expecting a large white angel with a blue crotch.

No one.

She looked next in all the learned books
and the print spat back at her.

No one

She made a pilgrimage to the great poet
and he belched in her face.

No one.

She prayed in all the churches of the world
and learned a great deal about culture.

No one.

She went to the Atlantic, the Pacific, for surely God...

No one.

She went to the Buddha, the Brahma, the Pyramids
and found immense postcards.

No one.

Then she journeyed back to her own house
and the gods of the world were shut in the lavatory.

At last!
she cried out,
and locked the door.

by Anne Sexton

It is so hard to caress...

It is so hard to caress an angel on his wings!

No matter how close, he keeps away from touch

For fear you could catch him,

He swirls, comes back, quietly flaps his wings,

It is the only sound he is capable of.

The angels, they do not know how to speak,

Words are incapable

Of expressing them,

Their deaf message is their presence.

The way they approach

To embrace you with their aura,

But quickly draw away,

Scared of intimacy,

Protectors, but not familiar,

Always leaving a distance through which

My words crawl to reach them,

Without knowing if

They are too weak to touch their hearing.

What a handicap of faith:

Not knowing if you are heard or if you hear

And out of all senses only the tactile dream remains

Of caressing, without scaring, an angel on his wings …

By Ana Blandiana

The original version is here.